


Determination

by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Series: Clutch [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: BDSM, Community: wrestlingkink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: "I can dom you easy," Dean said. "It's not about size."





	

Dean was almost asleep, in that hazy subspace place he went to after a good night. His body was limp on the mattress, ass and legs slapped cherry red, rope burns on his wrists, a line of sucked bruises laid across his shoulders. Brock was talking him down: Dean liked that. Muttering nonsense until Dean was totally out. Little observations about the session, mild complaints about the accommodations, promises for next time. He wasn’t even sure if Dean was listening until he spoke up.

“It’s not about size,” Dean interjected and Brock had to pause and backtrack, not sure what he’d actually just said. Something about ‘lucky you found a man even bigger than you to…’

“It’s not?” Brock asked. 

Dean shook his head against the pillow. “S’not. Size...it’s fun. But it’s just a game. Size doesn’t really matter.”

Brock put his hand gently on one of the hand prints still visible on Dean’s waist. With both hands he could practically encircle Dean’s body.

“I could dom you easy,” Dean said. He nuzzled his head into the pillow.

“Bullshit.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“I said that’s bullshit.” 

Dean was asleep, but that wasn’t the end of it.

Dean shipped out early with the other guys, dropping a sweet kiss on his cheek in the early morning twilight. Brock slept late, woke up with a headache and a nagging notion that just wouldn’t go away.

He had some time to kill before his flight home and he dropped by a gym he knew of to get in some training. The facilities were spacious and well maintained, nearly empty at this time of day, but Brock had trouble focusing. He tried to warm up on a bag, but couldn’t get his brain to shut off even when he got his heart rate up. 

Easy. Dean’d said he’d be easy.

He abandoned the hanging bag, letting it swing creaking on its chain and went to the weights. Low weights, high reps, nice and simple, he decided.

He’d fought Dean and Dean was tough. His punches hurt and he wasn’t afraid to kick. But, well, he also wasn’t exactly two rounds with Shane Carwin. There’d be no ropes to bounce off, no turnbuckle to leap from, no crowd to amp him up into delirium. 

Brock put down his weights, distracted, and wandered over to the rowing machine.

Maybe he’d use weapons. Dean liked weapons. Not those piddly little crops he’d seen at sex shops either, something with heft was more Dean’s style. A kendo stick maybe, beat him up and down his back until his every breath was agony. Brock wondered, briefly, why he’d never brought one of those into the bedroom himself.

Or maybe that barbed wire covered baseball bat Dean loved. A good bash from that would leave Brock bleeding and bruised. Cringing on the bed. Sheets streaked slick with fluid from his body. Dean licking it off his abdomen, face smeared all over with Brock’s blood. 

He faltered in his rhythm, hand slipping off the oar and colliding with his own chest.

He got out of the rowing machine and went to the locker room, mentally promising to make up the missed work out the next day. He grabbed his phone out his gym bag and rapidly dialed Dean’s number from memory.

Dean didn’t answer. That wasn’t so unusual, Dean often misplaced his phone, forgot to turn it on, forgot to charge it sometimes for days. He called back twice, then made himself towel off and change, putting on street shoes and double checking he’d grabbed everything out of his locker before dialing again. He was out of the gym and digging for the rental keys when Dean finally answered.

“Hey, man,” Dean said. Dean avoided certain endearments in public, at Brock’s request.

Brock paused in the parking lot, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Hey,” he said back, lamely. “Uh, hey. I was wondering when I can see you again.”

“Uh, I dunno. Next week I guess. For the live show?”

“Fuck.” That was too long. The time it had taken to dial his number had been too long.

“What’s the rush, big guy?”

Brock swallowed hard. “That’s kind of...I was thinking about what you said last night. About size.”

“Size?”

Brock blushed hard, fury briefly pounding through him. He would not be able to make it through this conversation if Dean didn’t remember his words.

“Last night.” Brock said, clearing his throat to ensure his voice was heard. “In bed. You said size doesn’t really matter. In domination.” He strangled the final word out like he was swearing in front of his mother. “You said it was just a game. And then you said…” he trailed off.

“I remember what I said.”

Brock forced himself to breathe through the tight feeling in his chest. “Were you full of shit?”

“No.”

Brock put a hand on the top of his car. The metal was hot in the sun. “If I canceled my flight, drove up, could I see you tonight?”

“I’ve got a house show tonight.”

“Tomorrow then.”

There was a silence on the line as Dean worked something out from Brock’s words that Brock couldn’t reason but still wished he could take back.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Tomorrow night. I’ll text you the hotel address.”

“And you’ll...you’ll do the thing?”

He could practically hear Dean grin. “Oh yeah. Yeah. I’ll do it. Don’t worry.”

Brock hung up without saying goodbye. It took him twenty minutes to find his keys. They were sitting on top of the rental car.

He was grabbing dinner later, salad and fish and other healthy crap, sitting by himself in a dark corner of a bistro when he remembered Dean’s mouth. The easy way words rolled off his tongue, the self satisfied smile he got during intense promos. Brock didn’t have the knack himself, stuck to taped interviews and a menacing glower. But Dean had a way of smiling like he saw right through that silent monster act. If he had to go insult for insult with him, he’d lose. Dean would find all of his hidden quiet blind spots and drag them out for them both to see. All the nasty weaknesses and faults, he’d admit to them if Dean got him tripped up enough, take them like a beating and never really forget they were there.

Hell, he’d barely gotten through making the request.

Brock didn’t really feel like finishing his dinner. He didn’t sleep too well that night either.

He woke up the next morning thinking about ropes. 

In the shower it was thin ropes, the heavy and stiff kind that bit into flesh and carved red channels in skin. He would wager on himself against the construction of your average hotel bed, but if the rope was strong and tight enough, if Dean lashed him to himself, he wasn’t so sure. His wrists crossed over his head would obliterate any chance of blocking. Or maybe on his stomach, wrists and hands hog tied together, his chest thrust forward and his neck arching to keep his chin off the ground. He wouldn’t even have to go buy anything, Brock thought. He could use hand wraps or gauze. He could use kt tape, heavy and sticky. Brock would scream bloody murder against a gag. 

As the day went on the ropes got bigger, sliding through clothesline and rock climbing lines to heavy impractical sizes that would require serious hardware to anchor. Trussed up with sailing rope, so thick around his body that his skin barely showed. Immobile on the bed with Dean sitting on top of him, taking blows on his face with no rhythm to breathe against. 

He was halfway to the new hotel when it struck him that Dean hadn’t actually said anything about staying in the room. Maybe he’d take him back to the empty arena and tangle him up in the ring ropes. As he was checking in, hauling his stuff up to his room, he thought about Dean taking him back to a full arena. To shouting voices and jeers. His arms spread wide like a crucifixion, his weight on his knees and his face beat red with shame.

He flushed in the elevator and shook himself. That wouldn’t happen. He was letting his thoughts run too wild.

He couldn’t watch television, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He didn’t even want to try going down to the little hotel gym and working out. He thought about taking another shower, but the idea of being naked and defenseless when Dean showed up, lugging whatever it was he was going to bring over his shoulder, was more than he could bear. 

Dean was late and then he was later and Brock was nearly sick with nerves by the time he heard a knock at the door. He’d been peeking out the drawn hotel room blinds, looking down into the parking lot, but he hadn’t noticed anyone pulling up and he wasn’t sure it was Dean at the door until he opened it. He hustled Dean in quickly, ignored his proffered “hey, babe,” and gave Dean a heavy looking over.

Dean didn’t have anything. No bag of tricks. No restraints. No weapons, unless he had a switchblade in his pocket or brass knuckles hidden under his coat. Brock flinched at the idea.

“You said it’d be easy,” Brock said, shifting his weight back to his heels.

“Domming you?”

“Yes.”

Dean look off his coat and tossed it against the wall, revealing nothing but his bare arms below his t-shirt sleeves. He counted something out on his fingers. Came to five. Nodded. “I can do it in five words.”

“Yeah?” So it was going to be humiliation. Calling him a big dumb son of a bitch, a loser, a freak. Mocking his body or his brains or the way he talked. He took a deep breath. He could handle that; the same way he handled boos and beercups raining down. He locked eyes with Dean. “Do it.”

Dean smiled. It was a warm, easy smile and it made his dimples flash. He took a step toward Brock, then another when Brock found himself stepping backwards and made himself stop. 

Dean brought a hand up and laid it gently across the side of Brock’s face, warmth over his cauliflower ear and fingernails scratching pleasantly aganst his scalp. Brock eyed him suspiciously. Dean did not stop smiling, did not break eyes, and then after a moment he spoke in a sweet gravel voice. A question.

“Are you a good boy?”

Brock sighed, a surge of emotion flooding his stomach, a need and a want and a warmth like happiness all at once, churning with his fear. He went dizzy, took a slow drop to his knees and when he focused again it was still Dean’s smile, still his warm eyes looking down at him.

“Are you a good boy?” Dean asked again.

“Yes,” Brock said and he very much wanted it to be true.

Dean nodded, like he wanted to believe him. Like he was ready to give Brock a chance to prove himself. He gestured to the bed. “Show me.”

Brock did.


End file.
